


I'm Glad You Came

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, John is adorably nervous, M/M, Sherlock is unbelievably charming, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2968967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a standing date every Valentine's Day with Sherlock Holmes.<br/>This year, he's coming to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Glad You Came

**Author's Note:**

> omg! So, I wrote this and published it a year ago on Valentine's Day. I love it. This is my most favorite AU I have written, and I started a sequel for it about a month ago to be posted this year on Valentine's Day.  
> So, I went back, and had the lovely firestorm26c read through and do some editing on my first draft, and I polished it up to make this shiny new version!  
> Not much has been changed; it's just cleaned up and a little tighter than before.
> 
> I hope you love it as much as I do, and look for the sequel in February :)
> 
> ****  
> ****  
> ****

John was making all kinds of noise that early Valentine’s morning as he tossed empty bottles and boxes across the room into the garbage. He was entirely focused on his task, and didn’t take notice of his sister, standing behind him with her fading pink dressing gown loosely fastened over her pyjamas, her hair set in curlers, and her bare foot tapping against the linoleum tile.

“What in the hell are you doing?” she bellowed, “It’s sodding 7:30 in the morning; you don’t even have trousers on!”

John looked down at himself to see, that in fact, yes, he was only in a pair of old boxer shorts. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m cleaning." He answered her. "Did mum and dad even teach you what a bin is for?”

“Of course they did. I've been a bit busy this week, or did you not notice me not being here?

“Of course I noticed.” John snapped back to her.

“Then why are you in the kitchen freaking out in your underpants?”

John threw an empty jar of jam down particularly hard against the other glass jars and bottles in the bin, sending an echoing _clank_ throughout the kitchen “Because it’s Valentine’s Day!”

Harry let out a long, loud sigh to try and even the temper her baby brother was starting to make rise within her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

John threw wild, furious eyes in her direction, “Please tell me you have plans tonight. Some attempt at a reconciliation dinner with Clara, maybe?”

“No. No dinner with Clara, but I do have plans; I’ll be out with some girlfriends getting drunk and bitching about being divorced.”

“Oh, good. Good.”

John’s eyes softened, and his breathing leveled out to something a little less than panic, but not quite contentment.

He had thrown everything of unimportance away on the counter (and from the dining table and even from inside the fridge). He ran a cloth underneath running water, and sprayed some disinfectant onto it, and began wiping it across all of the surfaces, scrubbing rather hard at certain dried on spots of marinara sauce and jam.

“John, darling, you have got to explain to me what is going on before I get one of those sedatives you keep in the bathroom cabinet and shove it down your throat.”

John stopped his furious wiping for a moment; shook in a ragged, anxious breath and met his sister’s concerned eyes; she looked a lot like their mother in her current state of lingering sleepiness and worry. He started to wonder for just a moment when the last time it was that he had called his mum.

“For the past six years I have had a standing date for Valentine’s Day.”

“You what?”

“As long as neither of us were in serious relationships at the time, he and I have always met with each other. Usually it’s a hotel somewhere between the two of us, I’ve been to his flat in London a couple of times. This year we decided he would come out here."

Harry's mouth opened to say something, but she couldn't find the words right away, and so it just hung open for a moment as she replayed what John just said to her.

“Wait." She said as her head shook, and hips shifted so all of her weight was thrown to the left side of her body. Yes, she was their mother exactly.

" You’re having a stranger come to my flat to have sex with you?”

“First of all, it’s _our_ flat, seeing as I’ve been paying more than half the rent the past two years. Second of all, he isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him for six years; we email sometimes- but I only get the chance to see him once a year. And third of all, he’s not just coming here for sex.

Harry turned up an eyebrow.

“There’ll be dinner and wine too.”

She laughed, and so did John.

“Where did you meet this bloke?”

“A conference on poisonous inhalants.”

“Romantic.”

“Shut it.”

John resumed the wiping down he had abandoned, trying to ignore the feeling of judgment that came from Harry’s gaze. He knew that she wasn’t judging him. John had always been there for Harry while she struggled through her addiction; being supportive when he needed to be, angry when he had to be and joyful when she had kicked the habit enough to start to pull her life back together. He was there with her when she came out, having secretly known (about his sister for years, but never wanting to say anything to her in fear that she, herself wasn’t aware of her sexuality yet. John though now, as she looked at him still, and thought that maybe she had been doing the same for him.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?” she repeated, and started to quietly laugh, “What the hell kinda name is that?”

“Family name, I think.”

“I see. Well, what time are you expecting Sherlock, then?”

“His train should get in around four.”

“Would you like me gone by then?”

John shook his head, “No, I won’t kick you out, but maybe by five?”

Harry smiled and ruffled the gray-blonde hair on her brother’s head, like she had done so many times before.

“Let me have my tea, and I’ll start on the living room, alright?” she said to him.

“Thank you Harry. You’re the best big sister ever.” John said as he clutched his hands against his chest and batted his eyelashes at her.

“Alright, now it’s your turn to shut it.” She said to him just before he managed to burst out into laughter.

It was later, as John was changing out the well slept in sheets on his bed for freshly laundered ones, that he heard his mobile; first the harsh vibration against the wood of his nightstand and then the melodious string of beeps. He dropped the corner of the sheet before it got tucked underneath the mattress and picked up the phone.

_Train running on schedule. See you in two hours. SH_

It didn’t matter how many times throughout the year they exchanged emails, surprise photos or the occasional dirty text message, he was always nervous just before he was expected to see Sherlock. John had felt a strong and instant connection to the man from the moment he sat next to him at that now glorious conference. His hair was dark, and the most unruly mess of curls he had ever seen, and his eyes; it was like they couldn’t figure out what color they were meant to be, and just when they thought that had it figured out, changed again, and again. And his face, and the way he carried himself was like homage to a majestic Roman sculpture; as if he was a walking, talking, breathing archaeological discovery. And when he opened his mouth to speak-the world crumbled down around him. The walls, trees, sky and eventually the Earth’s core were demolished by the velvet purr that escaped his mouth.

The conference had lasted five days. On each one, John and Sherlock found their way to the same seats, found their way to small talk and bad jokes. Sherlock told John every possible little thing he could ever want to know about the strangers that milled about around them, and then broke him down in the same fashion; pulling out every detail he thought he had kept hidden within himself. It should have terrified John, but it didn’t. It was brilliant. It was dizzying, and the sheer genius of that already impossibly gorgeous man was an absolute turn on.

So, it was on the last day that they took their usual seats, made their usual morning acknowledgements, and tried as hard as they could to listen to the speaker, but there was no focus beyond counting each other’s breath or teasing against one another’s fingers. They laughed at  what seemed like an inappropriate moment due to all the eyes that very quickly flew in their direction while they fled from the auditorium, letting the heavy doors crash behind them.

Still laughing, and holding onto each other’s hand, they crossed the lobby, banged into the elevator and impatiently rode up to the top floor where Sherlock’s room was booked. They then proceeded to spend the next five hours intimately learning about the other. John had never felt the kind of desire and passion that Sherlock gave to him; he was so focused on John that if John had been a weaker man he might have cracked and began to weep at the exquisite attention lavished upon him. That room became a haven of carnal love, a sacred space of never before uttered secrets and wishes from the both of them.

Eventually bright day turned blissfully into night, then early morning. Though they both agreed on the need and the desire to see one another again, neither of them wanted to make a relationship out of it. Sherlock claimed matrimony to his workand John had just become partner to a friend in private practice, just outside of London. They were two hours away from each other. So, they threw a steak knife from the dinner that had ordered the night before at a calendar and stuck with the date it had chosen for them to meet once a year-Valentine’s Day.

When John thought about it now, on the days that he found an unexpected email in his inbox from Sherlock detailing a case he had just finished or the random deduction of a woman, man or child he had stood behind in the queue at the coffee shop, he wished, just the tiniest little part of him, that he was there when those things had happened, rather than just another contact in Sherlock’s phonebook.

He went back to tightening the sheet across the bed, smoothing the wrinkles down and fluffing the duvet back over the top before tossing the pillows back on.

Harry appeared at his door, leaning against the frame; her curls out, and hair bouncing against the space between her shoulders. She was showered, and dressed with a cup of tea warming between her hands.

“Bathroom is clean, and I shoved those papers and magazines under the sofa into my room.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She took a sip of her tea, and disappeared as quickly as she had shown up. Although, John had been so lost in thought that she could have continued standing there for hours and he wouldn’t have noticed.

When there was nothing left to clean or pick up in his bedroom or the remainder of the flat, John went into the bathroom, undressed from the pyjama bottoms and gray RAMC shirt he had slipped into shortly after his nervous breakdown in the kitchen and stepped into the shower after placing them into the hamper behind the door. The water was hot, hotter than his body should have been able to stand, but that was the way he liked it. He pinked his skin until he couldn’t handle it anymore. He scrubbed, washed and rinsed, and then did it all again before blasting the water to the coldest setting, and finally turned it off and stepped out. He toweled off and wrapped it around his waist. As he leaned over the sink to inspect the state of his cheeks and chin, he could see that there was enough to shave away. But Sherlock was the kind of man that appreciated a little burn against his face - and other sensitive areas - and John also liked to see the red irritation that it left behind on Sherlock’s pale skin. He skipped the shave then, and went  to vigorously rubbing a small towel through his hair, taking away the moisture before placing the smallest amount of product into it. He swished his fingers around in a haphazard manner until it appeared to do something he liked.

He left the bathroom, went back into his bedroom and took out his nicest pair of brown trousers. He dipped one foot into the opening, and then the other, and slid the cool material against his calves and over his thighs before he fastened the button. He reached atop the dresser to his cologne collection, too many bottles of too much cheap stuff,  and sprayed his favorite into the air a few times before twirling himself into the lingering particles of rosewood and cinnamon. He reached into the open wardrobe, and pulled a red button up from the hanger it was on; not red for the day, but red because he wanted his external to match the internal fire he was feeling.

He glanced at the time on his watch as he fastened it to his wrist; 15:20. The fire churned and the flames inside his stomach sparked and popped until John swallowed them down and evened out his breathing. He left his room, walked barefoot down the hallway, and smiled when he saw Harry on the sofa watching television. He thought that maybe, she would hide herself away in her room, but honestly, John was pretty sure that she was  going to hang around and take the chance to meet the man he had been keeping secret from her for over half a decade.

John went into the kitchen, turned the radio on to try and settle his nerves. He opened the fridge to take out what he needed to make dinner; the fresh ravioli he had prepared the night before (sweet lobster blended with a heavenly mixture of mascarpone and ricotta cheese); the lettuce and vegetables for the salad (leafy red and romaine, sliced carrots, cucumbers, mushrooms and black olives), and the freshly minced garlic and butter he would need for the ravioli sauce. He opened the cupboard for an assortment of spices (saffron, basil, thyme, cilantro). He filled a pot with water, let it boil as he raggedly cut up the lettuce and tossed it into the large wooden bowl his mum had bought for him years ago, then tossed in the bag of vegetables, mixing them together with two forks before sprinkling salt and pepper on the top for good measure. He hummed along with the music, something in the Top 40 he wasn’t too familiar with, and set the salad aside and dropped the ravioli into the water.

He looked down at his watch once again, 16:11. The train station was only a ten minute cab ride away; given the time it would take Sherlock to gather his things, get off and hail a taxi, he would be there soon. He opened the fridge and took out a lightly chilled bottle of Pinot Noir he had stuck in there just before his shower. He replaced it with another from the rack on the kitchen counter next to the fruit basket as he took down two glasses, and poured himself a small splash to take the edge off things. He barely had time to swallow the sip before there was a buzz on the intercom. John wiped his sweating hands on the tea towel hanging above the sink, and crossed into the living room. He pressed the button to allow entrance without even checking to make sure it was him. In that moment, if he heard Sherlock’s voice, deep and crackling over the barely functioning intercom he might have passed out right there and then; been down for the count before he even started.

Harry turned off the television, and reached for a copy of National Geographic, opening to the first random page she found that wasn’t an advertisement. John shook his head at her, and stood a few feet back from the door, listening to the footsteps approach. He waited, knots in his chest, tension in his shoulders, breath trapped between his throat and his mouth.

There was a quick, sharp rap of two knuckles against the door. John waited a second longer, then reached for the doorknob, and opened the door to the beautiful sight he knew was waiting for him on the other side.

“Hi.” John said, fighting his breath to speak

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said back.

John was right not to speak to him through the buzzer; those words from Sherlock’s lips made John’s knees shake.

Sherlock smiled- whole and wonderful, and not to mention beautiful. John’s knees shook a little harder, feeling his chest constrict from the nerves rattling inside his body.

“I brought dessert.” Sherlock said, effortlessly holding out a white box tied with twine.

John’s brain managed to let his hands know to reach out and take the box, “Something that survived the train ride I hope.”

“Just a fruit pie. Should still be intact.” Sherlock said.

“Great. I’ll set it in the kitchen. Come in...please.”

John stepped away from the door, and let Sherlock enter. He slipped his coat off; a great, overpowering thing made of blue and black wool. Underneath there was a dark green button up. The top two ivory buttons undone to show off his perfectly pale neck, and just a bit of chest. Enough for John to see the freckle that he remembered so fondly, and sleek black trousers.  John took the coat from him, along with his blue scarf and hung them on the rack next to the door.

“Uh, Sherlock, this is my sister Harry-we share the flat.”

Sherlock gracefully turned around on the heels of his shiny, expensive shoes, and smiled at Harry who had now stood up.

“It’s nice to meet you Harry; I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too Sherlock.” She said, almost stuttered actually, taking in the tall, drink of water her brother had just let it into their flat.

“Harry will be leaving shortly. Won’t she?” John asked between gritted teeth, still trying to sound as polite as possible. Sherlock laughed anyway, catching on to the small sibling tiff.

“Yes, I uh- I just have to go put my face on. Pretend I’m not even here.” Harry smiled and faffed off down the hallway and into her bedroom.

John motioned for Sherlock to follow him into the kitchen. He set the pie down on the counter, checked his ravioli-all floating at the top, and picked up the pot to pour out the boiling water into the colander sitting in the sink.

“Need some help?” Sherlock asked, looking at John through the rising steam.

“No, thank you. There’s uh-“ he fumbled a little, placing the pot back on the stove, “There’s some wine over there; go ahead and pour yourself a glass.”

Sherlock did so, and poured another for John as well. John went about placing the hot pasta on the plates he had brought down from the cupboard earlier. He covered them in the sauce mixture, and lightly sprinkled fresh parmesan cheese over the top. He set the plates on the table next to a setting of silverware of napkin, then brought the wooden bowl of salad down to set in the center along with a glass bottle of balsamic dressing and two empty bowls which he set next to the two plates. Sherlock placed the wine glasses in each spot and sat down while John followed; off his feet for the first time that day.

They caught up on the last year; John’s partner selling his share of the practice to him, and how John was only living with Harry to help her through her divorce, and because he found that the older he got the more lonely he became, and his best option was to move in with his sister. He swore up and down that he wasn’t pathetic, and Sherlock readily agreed. Sherlock recounted the cases he had solved for the Yard, mused on the general idiocracy of people, and how he had recently updated all of his lab equipment; donating the old pieces to the St. Bartholomew teaching school. John’s nervousness waned- either from the way Sherlock made him feel comfortable or the wine. John really wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t matter much anyway. All that mattered was that he was sitting in the kitchen with that gorgeous man; that it was his favorite day of the year, and if he was honest with himself, he wished every day that passed would be just like this one.

Dinner turned into dessert, and dessert turned into more wine and wine then turned into kissing on the sofa. John realized, as he tasted Sherlock’s lips for the first time in 365 days that he never really forgot the way they tasted. They were so masculine; rolled tobacco, coffee, and a linger of copper from a cut inside his lip that John always meant to ask where it had come from, but forgot by the time he remembered again. Sherlock’s hands were masculine too, though they didn’t look it from first glance, but it was hard for John not to notice the calluses of a man who knew the intimacy and intricacy of a violin like he knew his own soul or whose scars told of a man whose genius could be forgotten when deep intent is brought to an experiment with caustic chemicals when they were running up underneath his now untucked, and nearly fully unbuttoned shirt.

John leaned into Sherlock’s touch, feeling not fully in control of himself or the sounds that escaped his lips as he dragged them across Sherlock’s neck, leaving hard kisses in their wake. Both of their shirts had vanished from their bodies, finding new residence on the floor next to the sofa. As hands began to search for zippers and buttons in tandem, John tore himself away from Sherlock’s body to stand, and reach his arm down to pull him up as well.

 They held each other’s hand going down the hallway, and pushing into John’s room. John laid Sherlock down on the bed; his back pressing against the clean linen, and crawled over his body, matching the look of desire in Sherlock’s eyes with his own as he lowered himself until chest met chest. John’s hand slipped between the two of them, canting his hips up just slightly to work at the fly of Sherlock’s trousers, and shimmy them down the thin man’s legs for Sherlock to kick them off on his own accord. John followed his own example, and took his own off. Not much time had passed before they had their pants off, and were alone, naked together in the pure darkness.

There was such a beauty to Sherlock that John often reached for in the nights when he was asleep- restlessly searching for a release to the nightmares he suffered. The thing he loved, was that he got to rediscover Sherlock’s places of pleasure. Some were remembered, but John always found a place to touch, suck or kiss that surprised him when a moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth, and John was supremely aware that Sherlock had all of John’s memorized, catalogued and organized for easy recollection. It didn’t matter much if he knew anyway, because Sherlock never spared a single inch of John’s body from his delicate touch.

He sat backwards in Sherlock’s lap, no real memory of how he got there, no real memory of how and when Sherlock ended up inside of him, but not really caring once he made the realization. Sherlock wrapped an arm tight around John’s torso, bringing them as close together as they possibly could. He bent his head down and kissed at the back of John’s neck, across the breadth and over to one shoulder and then retraced  his way to the other.

John felt his muscles tighten further and further at the touch, at the anticipation, at the divine feeling of him. Sherlock’s hand splayed across John’s chest, above his heart that was beating a million miles a second. At the same time Sherlock also pressed his lips against John’s carotid artery; he tapped his finger against his chest and his tongue against his neck,  taking John’s pulse; as if waiting for the right point, the right moment. It was three seconds later, but really it could have been three hours or three years later for all John knew before Sherlock finally and suddenly moved, and it absolutely broke John apart.

Completely. Udderly. Shattered. Apart.

_Fuck!_

He writhed; trying to push and pull away from Sherlock at the same he was trying to push back and down, and get _closer, closer, closer_. His fingers alternately dug into the duvet, and Sherlock’s thighs, and digging his nails into Sherlock’s back; gripping at anything to keep him upright. Every time John started to sag forward, Sherlock tightened his one armed grip, holding him firmly against his chest. John could feel Sherlock’s muscles - deceptively hidden by his lean figure, but there, _wonderfully_ _and perfectly there_ \-  flex and roll against his own muscles in his back. They went on forever, at least John was wishing it to go on forever.

Between the _pants, moans and groans,_ John found the strength to utter four breathless words to Sherlock as he hovered above him.

“I’m glad you came.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who follow any of my other writings, don't fret, I am still working on them!  
> Holidays and family, and stuff just sort of got the better of me, but I should be back at it soon enough!


End file.
